


the two hours' traffic of our stage

by Carmarthen



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: 16th Century CE, Banter, Dialogue Heavy, Fix-It of Sorts, Flirting, Half-Assed Research, Historical, Italy, M/M, Metafiction, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Renaissance Era, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:18:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3162689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It's <b>Carthage</b> and there hasn't even been a proper fight, only a whole lot of droning on about honor. If I wanted that I'd ask my father; at least he doesn't do it in verse."</i>
</p><p>Tybalt and Mercutio meet at a very bad play. Words are said, eyelashes batted, and no one gets stabbed (that way...or the other way...yet).</p><p>(Canon levels of misogyny on Mercutio's part; based on the Hungarian musical production but probably relatively Shakespeare-compatible, aside from a few brief references.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the two hours' traffic of our stage

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to drcalvin for jokes and much help getting bits unstuck!
> 
> Is life a beautiful theatre...or not? Maybe Tybalt's right after all....

The play was worse than Mercutio had feared. Romeo's latest muse—a dark-eyed actress he was certain he had seen in attendance on his uncle the Prince—bore a coquettish air entirely unsuited to the gravity of a classical heroine, her Sofonisba more commedia than tragedia. Trissino's plodding attempt at classicism dragged, for heavens forfend a trace of wit contaminate the purity of history. Everyone in the entire disaster was a proper idiot, and Mercutio already had a feeling it would end in some ridiculously convoluted poisoning plot.

During the interval, Mercutio pled thirst and fled Romeo's mooncalf babbling about Sofonisba's plight, which he gave not a fig for, to search for a wineseller. Which was how he ran into Tybalt Capulet, scowling hard enough to create a little space around himself in the crush of Verona's less well-to-do and less frequently bathed—an impressive talent, which Mercutio rather envied at present.

Baiting Tybalt was always good sport, and certainly better sport than two more acts of this drivel. Mercutio gave Tybalt a smile, letting a bit of extra slink into his walk. "Sweet Tybalt! I did not think you had a fondness for poles and chariots." He had half-remembered the phrase from one of Romeo's drunken ramblings about scenery and heavens and trompe l'oeil and his glorious muse Sofonisba's dark and sparkling eyes, but whatever it actually meant, it did cause Tybalt to turn a funny shade of pink around the ears.

"I don't know what nonsense you're babbling," he said with a severity that was the most amusing thing Mercutio had seen all evening, although to be fair it had little contest, "but Mistress Angelica wished for an escort to the theatre."

Mercutio blinked, trying to imagine _Tybalt_ finding himself the kind of widowed noble mistress who'd have the nerve to be seen in public with the Capulets' ill-mannered hound on her arm. He was fetching enough, Mercutio supposed, if you liked them dour and humorless—in the right light, at the right angle, if he kept his mouth shut and did not frown too much—although it would help a great deal if he combed his hair. He paused to envision Tybalt, hair combed, with a good meal and a cup of wine to bring color to his sallow cheeks, but the vision dissolved at the smile. Even his imagination was not so deft as to create such a fantasy. 

Well, perhaps this Mistress Angelica simply needed someone stabbed. 

And then he remembered where he'd heard the name before—oh, oh, what a perfect joke! So easy to mime shock, a hint of disgust: "Why Tybalt, you alley cat! How liberal-minded of you; how generous; why, she must be forty at the least!"

Tybalt grabbed his wrist, swift as a cat and no more gentle, hard enough to hurt, and yanked him into the shadow of one of the columns in the loggia; the better to threaten him, he supposed. "Have a care, Mercutio," he snapped, a hint of real anger slipping into his voice. "You may insult me as you like, but Mistress Angelica is like a mother to me."

 _At least she is not like an aunt to you,_ Mercutio thought, but held back the jest at the look on Tybalt's face; drawn daggers in the theatre was something that might strain even his uncle's long-tested patience. Time to sheathe his claws. "Peace," he said, attempting to look as friendly as he could with one hand still caught fast. "I am merely out of temper; my jest in poor taste. I suppose you are suffering as much as I am."

"By God," Tybalt moaned, a picture of misery as he dropped Mercutio's wrist in order to wave his hands about in disgust. "It's _Carthage_ and there hasn't even been a proper fight, only a whole lot of droning on about honor. If I wanted that I'd ask my father; at least he doesn't do it in verse."

"Night and day for the last fortnight I have heard Sofonisba's praises sung, so I come to expect the goddess Venus herself, only to find my uncle's simpering mistress. And she isn't even very pretty," Mercutio added, more in jealousy than honesty. "Is anything duller than a tragedy with ugly girls?"

"I would have said being trapped in a room with you, but I think even your blather must concede before Signor Trissino's," Tybalt said with a sour look.

"I am hurt." Mercutio affected wide-eyed tragedy. "You've called me many things before—blatherer, clown, fool, king of words—actually, that one's rather flattering—"

"Also idiot, puppet, scoundrel."

Mercutio gave him a suspicious look, for the blandness of his tone nearly elevated his contribution to a joke. A man could not afford to be choosy with Tybalt's humor. "—yes, thank you. If ever my honored uncle loses his power of speech—God forbid—and is in need of someone to enumerate my faults, I shall have him call on you. But dull! I truly am wounded."

"Your histrionics would at least make you a more appealing Sophonisba."

And there was the opening he'd waited for—if he waited long enough, Tybalt always obliged. Mercutio sidled closer, batting his eyelashes. "From dull to appealing so swiftly, my lord," he drawled. "You'll turn a man's head with talk like that."

"I take it back." But Tybalt permitted Mercutio to join him against the pillar, close enough to touch, and there was the hint of something at the corners of his mouth, an unfamiliar twitch that threatened to become more. Well, that was interesting. "You'd take up half the second act with your death scene, no doubt."

“Only if the blade is well-wielded,” Mercutio breathed in his ear, and watched a fine shiver run through him. “I’ve heard—”

The bells rang for the second act and Tybalt leapt away like a startled cat, but not an angry one. There was something attractive about Tybalt like this, unsettled and almost friendly, a faint stain of color high on his cheekbones; at any rate more attractive than any of the actresses—or watching Romeo chase after them.

“And so we must return to Carthage.”

“ _You_ must return to Carthage. _I_ was leaving when you accosted me; Mistress Angelica met some friends of hers and no longer has need of me, thank God.”

“A capital idea!” Mercutio looped his arm through Tybalt’s and grinned; the trick was to move fast, talk fast, keep Tybalt too off-balance to start thinking about blades—at least the kind made of steel. “I heard old Peccana has a new Rhenish red in, better than his usual swill.”

“The noble Mercutio would abandon his friend to suffer alone?”

“Oh, my friend only _suffers_ in delicious and optimistic anticipation of his courtship of La Sofonisba; I doubt he’ll miss me. I cannot vouch for my actions if I have to endure another act of this; even your company is safer.”

“Well,” said Tybalt drily, “if it is a matter of the public safety.”

“It is,” Mercutio assured him. 

The bells rang again as Tybalt permitted himself to be steered towards the way out. He still bore an air of suspicion, which Mercutio supposed was reasonable enough. But later, perhaps, with some wine in him and proper application of persuasion, he might be convinced to rehearse a little death scene—a much more pleasurable ending to the afternoon’s drama. He’d not really considered the possibility before, for all that it was fun to flirt and prod until Tybalt lost all power of speech. But today he’d seen something new in Tybalt, something intriguing.

After all, they were not circumscribed by some dead playwright’s words, by roles written for them and morals to present to a half-asleep audience of fools and peasants. 

All things were possible.

**Author's Note:**

> -The pole and chariot system was a way of moving stage scenery developed in Italian Renaissance theatre; it just sounds vaguely dirty.
> 
> -I couldn't actually find that much about Italian Renaissance theatre's role _in society_ , only about the neoclassical theatrical tradition (very much not like Shakespeare) and the technical and architectural innovations. So I hand-waved vigorously. I handwaved vigorously about theatre architecture, too, because I got frustrated with the research.
> 
> -Giovan (or Gian) Giorgio Trissino's _Sofonisba_ (1524) was the first play in a European language reviving the themes of classical Greek tragedy. It ends with the titular heroine poisoning herself so she won't be sent as a slave to Rome. I'm pretty sure neither Mercutio nor Tybalt would like it.
> 
> - _Sofonisba_ was probably a 5-act play, or at any rate not a 2-act one, but I couldn't resist using drcalvin's joke about second-act death scenes because I am a terrible person. And who knows, maybe they're only on act one of five. I really couldn't find much about the structure of Renaissance drama.
> 
> -Angelica is either the name of the Nurse or the name of Capulet's wife in Shakespeare, but my reading of the context is that it's more likely the Nurse's name.


End file.
